


The Divergent Evolution of the Uncommon Hydrangea

by laurelofthestory



Category: Puyo Puyo (Video Games)
Genre: Agender Character, Backstory, Canon Era, Character Development, Character Study, Curses, Demonic Possession, Demons, During Canon, Gen, Ghosts, Long Shot, POV Multiple, Pre-Canon, What If Canon Was Deep, not entirely canon compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:28:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25718842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurelofthestory/pseuds/laurelofthestory
Summary: It's strange, how the same seeds can grow in very different ways depending on their circumstances.Or; the tale of a demon torn in two who, no matter what they do, can't escape the inevitably ofteenagersmakingincredibly stupid decisions.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 58





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My entire take on most of Puyo boils down to "No, It's Not That Deep, _But What If It Was",_ and this is no exception.
> 
> From what I know about the (currently untranslated) lore here, this conflicts with it, but also canon is fake and it's my city now. Thanks to several friends ([lognrithm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lognrithm/pseuds/lognrithm) and [RadioZap777](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RadioZap777/pseuds/RadioZap777) come to mind, along with others without accounts here) for their inspiration, encouragement, and patience for letting me go absolutely ape with development in order to spawn this monstrosity. You filthy enablers, you.
> 
> This was originally supposed to be a oneshot but, as usual, I couldn't shut up, so it's split into multiple parts going through to Fever 2.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ajisai takes their final visitors, and reads their final book.

A demon lurks in the streets of the village tonight, slinking between the small thatch buildings in the shafts of fading sunset. It has skulked about these paths many times before, but tonight...tonight, he’s going to put an _end_ to it.

Perhaps he’s not the spitting image of a hero--a simple carpenter with a good life, a good trade, and a good family. But even though he’s satisfied with his life, dreams of knighthood had lingered in his head since he was a child. Protecting the village and slaying monsters, lofty ideals of bravery and recognition, it had all appealed to him for as long as he could remember. And he’d happened to be in the right place at the right time, if not a little rushed.

The demon living in the abandoned castle on the cliffside has no shortage of stories surrounding it, though few have seen it in the flesh. Some claim to have seen glimpses of it in the forest around town, while fewer others say they’ve seen it walking about town before wearing a mockery of a human form, casual as you please, before disappearing for weeks at a time. Several profess that the demon has stolen into their dreams before, and while he was originally doubtful of such outlandish statements, the descriptions shared between them are too similar to be coincidence. A few have gone up to the castle, but none have returned with anything useful to talk about besides a few burns.

He’d been lucky in that a good friend of his had apparently seen the demon wandering about earlier, and had thought to rush to tell him. Perhaps his makeshift weapon of a fire poker wasn’t the most gallant, but it was sharp, and he had some strength behind his arms. He couldn’t be _sure_ iron would kill it, but didn’t have time to go get anything like silver or holy water, and it’ll make for good information if nothing else. He just has to make sure he sneaks up on the creature and attacks before it can work any of its magic...

“Excuse me. May I pass?”

The carpenter _whirls_ around, grip tightening on the poker. On the path before him stands a figure he doesn’t recognize--androgynous in build, sporting a deep mauve suit-jacket and a red tie with odd gold markings. A fuchsia cloak is fastened around their shoulders with a gold chain, billowing past their ankles like wings. Their maroon hair flows down their back and tapers to a point that tips upwards as if in curiosity, and their face is that of an average, if sharp-featured, middle-aged human with reddish-tanned skin. However, the farmer immediately notices their brilliant crimson eyes and the horns that protrude from their forehead at slight angles, and his eyes go wide.

It doesn’t quite match the descriptions, but there’s no mistaking it.

“You!”

The demon, for it can be none other, takes a step back, brows arching into its hairline. A scaly, clawed red hand grips the strap of a lumpy satchel over its shoulder, doubtless full of materials for its fell rituals. “...Yes? I’d like to get home before nightfall, so if you wouldn’t mind…”

He fumbles for a moment, mind racing, before he manages to collect himself and point his poker forward. He tries to recall everything he’s ever read about brave knights and the way they spoke as the demon takes another step back, holding up a hand and frowning in puzzlement. “Back, you!” He wishes he sounded just a _little_ bit braver. “This ends here!”

The demon stares at him, then lets out a huff through its nose. “...Hm. I was hoping I could get all the way home _without_ one of these, this time.” A deep sigh, and it relinquishes its hold on its bag, holding out both palms as if to indicate it is unarmed. “I was just visiting the bookshop, that’s all. I don’t mean to cause a fuss.”

“A likely story!” He steps forward, but this time, it stands its ground. He very suddenly realizes just how _tall_ it is--two heads over him, at _least._ “We are sick and _tired_ of your reign of terror.”

Its eyes narrow. “My _‘reign of terror’._ ” The words are drier than old parchment.

“Yes!”

“And _when_ was the last time I bothered any of you?”

“Oh, we _know._ We see you creeping about in the shadows, frightening our children. We know you sneak into our dreams and twist our thoughts to suit your ends, as you work your evil magics in the safety of that castle. We know you’re biding your time until we’re at our weakest, and you at your strongest--and _then,_ you’ll _strike._ But I don’t intend to let that happen.”

“So...rumors and old wives’ tales.”

“That’s what you want us to think!”

Another deep sigh, and it mutters under its breath, holding up one hand with palm upward. He flinches and steps back, but instead of an attack, a little pale red light like a miniature star blooms on its hand, dancing along its fingertips.

“Really, I didn’t want to cause trouble.”

“Then surrender, beast! Lie down and die!”

“Hm. No, I’d rather not.” They raise their hand, and he finds his gaze unconsciously following the light. His eyes go wide as he realizes he _can’t look away._

“Wh-what are you doing to me?!”

“I’d say it’s nothing dreadful, but you wouldn’t believe me. There’s no point in convincing any of you when you’re like this. I’m not sure where you all keep _getting_ these sorts of stories, anyway.” A pause. It tilts its head. “Oh, you probably shouldn’t be holding this.” It reaches out and plucks the poker from his hands with barely an effort. He fumbles desperately to grab it, but it’s already out of his reach. It shrugs, planting the poker in the ground at its side as it lowers its hand and the little star closer to his eye level.

“Y-you won’t get away with this,” he sputters.

“I probably will. _Tum somnum._ ”

* * *

Ajisai snaps their fingers, and the little light vanishes as the hapless man slumps to the ground, unconscious. Their lips purse as they regard the human, then the sharp iron rod--yes, _definitely_ for the best that they took that away from him. Humans are fragile things. He could’ve seriously hurt someone.

Not _them,_ of course. It’s almost funny how the humans still think it’s possible to _harm_ them--or, it _would_ be if the humans didn’t use that justification to _bother_ them at any opportunity.

Ajisai sets down the iron rod and easily gathers the sleeping man into their arms, carrying him off the path until they reach a house they can lean him against where he probably won’t be disturbed. They set him down in what they hope is a somewhat comfortable position, and pat his head with a clawed hand as they stand, a smirk coming to their face. “Don’t worry. It was all just a dream.”

They turn and continue on their way towards home. _Maybe_ they could’ve gotten by without the dramatics, it’s true, but--is a bit of flair yet another _crime,_ these days? If the villagers are going to have such a misguided view on them, at the very least they can have a bit of fun with it now and again. 

Maybe they _do_ have a bit of a mischievous streak. They’re still a demon, after all, even if they aren’t exactly keen on attending the Prince’s parties these days.

No, they much prefer the little life they’ve carved out for themself here--a castle, run-down and too large for them but still serviceable, on the cliffside overlooking the little village; a collection of books and an equally large collection of plants that they’ve sunk all of their pride into. The man’s words do have some sort of twisted truth somewhere in them, as they do tend to alarm people they run into in the village, and their magic does have quite a lot to do with the realm of dreams. And, yes, maybe they sometimes go poking around where they shouldn’t, but--never with any sort of malicious intent. If anything, it’s easier for them to speak to people in dreams than it is in reality. Charisma and social aptitude are two different things, and while they’ve been told they have the former in spades, the latter is...lacking. It suits them well enough most days.

But they shouldn't have to worry about any further social interaction, now. Aside from this incident, they’ve made it through another excursion into town without any major problems, with a new set of books in their satchel and a couple of packets of seeds from the market. As the moon begins to peek over the horizon, Ajisai looks forward to spending the evening curled up in their study with one of their new purchases, as they spend most nights.

After all, why would things be different this time?

* * *

If you asked Ajisai, red wine had to be on the short list of things that humans had come up with that was truly an _excellent_ idea.

They don’t drink it constantly, of course. They do also enjoy a good cup of tea on the rare occasions they decide to indulge in human drink, and they’ve got a cellar of other spirits they have the luxury of allowing to age for as long as they need to--it’s not like they’re short on time. But deep in the quiet nights like this one, they’ve found there’s nothing quite like red wine. They’ve retired to their immaculately-kept study, lit by candles too dim for human eyes to read by, and have settled in a comfortable chair with one of their newly-purchased books in their clawed hands. On the table next to them, they are accompanied by a glass of the singular vermilion drink--this one a lovely bright, light flavor with hints of cherry and notes of spicy warmth underneath.

Ajisai is looking forward to reading this particular story, a fictitious tale of a lady framed for killing someone in a magical duel, fraught with intrigue as she tries to investigate the truth and clear her name. it’s not exactly within their normal tastes, but the book had been enthusiastically recommended to him by the bookseller, one of the few people who respected them if only by necessity of their constant visits (though they’re beginning to wonder if some of her respect stems from _other_ sources. They _do_ suppose they find her rather endearing, at least.)

Ajisai isn’t sure how long they spend engrossed in the tale, their wine nearly forgotten beyond the first couple of sips. But about a quarter of the way into the book, their focus is interrupted by an insistent ringing in their head, causing one of their ears to twitch as somebody rings their magical ‘doorbell’--or, more accurately, somebody tried to sneak up to the front of the castle and got ensnared by one of their magical wards.

They let out a long groan, grinding their teeth as they slip their favorite sun bookmark carefully between the book’s pages and set it aside. This happens on occasion, usually some misguided villager intending to ‘slay’ them or somebody trying to pick some of their flowers (apparently, it’s become hearsay around town that taking one of their hydrangeas is a sign of bravery and will bring good luck, though they have no idea where that came from). 

It doesn’t take Ajisai long to reach the massive front doors, and upon cracking one open and peering outside, the source of the ringing becomes quite obvious. 

Two humans are outside in their courtyard, both trapped in intricate sigils of crimson magic that bind their feet to the ground. They’d guess these two are fairly young, teenagers maybe, and appear to have masculine features, though the distinction’s always been difficult for them. The taller and sharper-dressed of the two is frantically trying to wrench his legs free of the spell, while the other, with long wavy hair and rounder features that suggest he is the younger of the two, has seemingly accepted his fate, sitting down in the sigil and idly picking at the grass as he glances around at their flowers. 

The younger one is the first to notice their head poking out the doors, and he offers them a tiny wave. Ajisai merely peers at the boy for a few moments before opening the door further and stepping outside, though the older boy is still too wrapped up in yanking at the magic to notice them until they clear their throat. The boy goes stiff and looks up sharply, adjusting his shirt and the satchel on his shoulder as if to make himself more presentable and generally _not_ look like he’d spent the last however many minutes wriggling like an ant stuck in flypaper. 

“Ah! Good evening, sir--uh, I mean--” Ajisai rolls their eyes and gestures for the boy to _get on with it_ \--humans seemed to be obsessed with their meaningless little categories and got all hung up over them, and this one sounds as if he’ll fumble on forever without a nudge. The boy clears his throat and starts over. “--erm, good evening.”

“It is the middle of the night.”

The boy glances up, as if only now noticing the half-moon partway across the sky. He chuckles nervously. “Is it? Is it _that_ late?”

Ajisai leans against the open door, tapping their claws against the thick wood. “Is there something you two needed?”

“Yes!” The boy nods eagerly, and starts fumbling with his satchel. “You see, my friend and I wanted you to have a look at something.”

Ajisai raises an eyebrow and looks to the younger boy still sitting in the grass. He shrugs, giving them an apologetic look and jerking his head towards the older boy as if to silently say _this was all his idea._

“--ah, here we are!” They look back to the elder as he triumphantly pulls something from his satchel--and their eyes widen just a bit, as he proudly displays it to them. It’s a book, relatively small even in the human’s hands, with a bright red cover and intricate gold trim. In the center is emblazoned a symbol of what they think is one of the blob creatures the Prince was seemingly obsessed with, that the villagers are growing ever more interested in as the slimes’ magical potential becomes more well-known. The book is relatively plain and unremarkable aside from that, but the fact that they don’t recognize it is intriguing in itself, and it has a certain...aura about it that piques their interest.

“...Where did you get that,” they ask, their tone shifting to something more conversational as they lean forward.

“It was given to me by an acquaintance,” the boy replies, “but I can’t make heads or tails of it. The bookseller says you have quite a collection, yes?”

Ah, of course she mentioned them. Ajisai nods. “I do have an interest in tomes, it’s true.”

“Then would you mind taking a look at this? I was told it was one of a kind, but I’m not so sure.”

 _One of a kind?_ They try not to look _too_ interested. “I am quite certain I’ll recognize it if it is not.”

“Then--” The boy instinctively tries to step forward, and nearly falls over as he realizes his feet are still extremely stuck. He winces. “...May we...erm... _move?_ ”

Ajisai sighs and waves a hand, dismissing the traps. It’s not as if these two could hurt them if they tried, not that Ajisai particularly wants the villagers to add something like _eating children_ to the long list of their perceived offenses. And Ajisai doesn't particularly _hate_ humans, unlike many of their kind--they just prefer to keep to themself and don't appreciate being bothered. But these two have interested them.

Ajisai steps back into the doorway, not exactly inviting the two in, but allowing them to come closer. The elder bows slightly and steps forward, before realizing his companion is still captivated by the flowers and gesturing impatiently towards him. The younger reluctantly stands and walks over, hands clasped in front of him and rocking back and forth.

“You have nice flowers,” he says, in a mumble that makes their ears twitch as they strain to hear him. “Are those hydrangeas?”

A slight smile finds the corner of their mouth. “Yes. I am quite proud of those.” The flowers are where they’d taken their current given name from, after all. “Though you really should see them in the sunlight for the full effect.” The younger boy returns their smile a little shyly, ducking his head. They chuckle under their breath. Not all the young humans are bad, they’ve found. At least, the ones whose parents haven’t taught them to be afraid yet. It’s a pity they have to grow up into...well, what most of them are. “Now, let me have a look at that book.”

They hold out a claw, and the older boy steps forward, though seems to hesitate, staring down at the book in both hands with a conflicted look on his face. Maybe he’s reluctant to part with it due to its perceived rarity. He takes a deep breath and holds it out to them, and they take it, examining it more closely. The cover is definitely leather and metal, as it appeared from a distance, though it doesn’t feel too old or worn, and the pages don’t look yellowed from the side. They can’t find a title or any other information besides the metallic blob creature staring at them from the cover--only one way to find out, they suppose.

Ajisai opens the book.

There are words on the inside front cover, seemingly singed into it with flame and written in an uncommon but not entirely unknown language. They carefully trace the letters with a nail as they read to themself.

_**“Cast in chains, those who seek what they must not find.”** _

They purse their lips. Odd, but with an inscription like that, maybe there _is_ something to this, after all. They glance over at the first page, only to find it entirely blank. They turn to the next page, finding it blank as well, and their eyes narrow. Another page, and another--all blank. Frustrated and confused, they flip to the center. Still nothing.

They glance up at the boys to ask about the meaning of this, but as they open their mouth, the book suddenly warms in their hands.

They realize it’s charmed a moment too late.

The feeling is sudden and overpowering--a violent _pull_ somewhere around their stomach that refuses to let them go. They find that they can’t force their hands to release the tome, and it begins to _burn,_ an agonizing _fire_ trailing up their arms and across their chest. They’re not sure if they scream or not, because all they can sense is red.

The force from the book pulls and pulls and _pulls_ as if trying to tear out their insides, but their surprise quickly turns to anger. They’re not going to be outdone by some petty charm. They clench their teeth, plant their feet, and call their magic forward, sparks of power running down their arms as they fight back against the pull and _hold on_ with _everything they have._

(They'll wonder many times, later on, whether it would've been better if they'd just let go.)

...

“I think they’re dead.”

“What? Th-that’s impossible! The book was supposed to _trap_ them, not _kill_ them!” Footsteps. Frantic pacing, far too close to their ears.

“Said who?”

“Said the person who _gave_ me the thing!”

“And that was?”

The footsteps stop. The older one seems to come to a terrible realization. “I...I don’t _remember._ ”

“Well, I’m pretty sure the thing killed them.”

“They’re not _dead._ ” 

“I mean, if they’re not dead, they’re gonna kill you.”

“ _Thank_ you. That’s _incredibly_ helpful.” The pacing resumes. “It--it’s fine. No one comes out here, so no one will find out. We pretend we were never here.”

“What’re you gonna do with the book?”

“I don’t know, give it back?”

“How’re you gonna give it back when you don’t remember who gave it to you?”

“I don’t _know_ , I’ll figure out-- _something.”_

They finally manage to gather the meager strength to raise their head. Usually, the sort of shriek the older one lets out accompanied by the height he jumps straight up would be at least _amusing,_ maybe earning a quip or two. But they find they...don’t particularly care. 

“Y-you’re alive!” The older boy forces an obviously fake grin as they sit up, running a hand through their hair and trying to assuage the ache in their head. “Oh, I’m glad, yes, very glad, I didn’t think--well, I didn’t _know_ , you know how sneaky magical artifacts can be, I hadn’t _realized_ \--”

They find themself getting lost somewhere in his stream of words, and they blink at him several times before interrupting. “What...what did you need again?” Their own tongue feels too heavy to form words, and the whole evening is a blur.

The boy sputters for a few moments as he tries to pin down his train of thought. They catch movement, and glance over to see the younger boy reaching to pick up the discarded book on the floor. Ah. They were interested in that, weren’t they? Why? It’s just a book.

“W-well, you see, we just wanted you to have a look at this book, because I got it from an acquaintance and they didn’t say very much about it, let alone that--”

“Um.” The younger boy now has the book open in his hands, and his eyes have gone wide.

“--it had some sort of curse on it, but of course, you’re fine, because you’re quite--”

“Um.”

“--powerful, or at least that’s what they say around the village, and that’s what I’ve read about demons, not that you particularly _look_ like--”

_“Um.”_

_“What?!”_ The boy whirls on his younger companion. “What _‘um’?!”_

“Um.” The younger boy holds out the book, chewing on his lower lip. “You should see this.”

The older boy takes it with a scoff, glancing down at the pages--and _all of the color spontaneously drains from his face._ There’s a very, very long pause as he stares at whatever he’s looking at...and then he _slams_ the book shut, the sound making them flinch. The boy stands up straight, stuffing the book back into his satchel. 

_“Well,_ would you look at that, we _really_ should be getting home, shouldn’t we? It’s very late, like you said!” The boy is talking too fast and too loud, and keeps glancing between them and the book as if _both_ have spontaneously grown eyes. They rub at their forehead between their horns and start working on standing up. “Er, thank you for your time, we won’t be bothering--”

“Don’t trample the flowers,” they mumble, having lost track of what the boy was going on about again. Once they’re sure they have their balance, they turn and head back towards their study, seeing no point in hanging around and continuing a conversation that's clearly already over.

It’s only when they’re halfway to their destination that they realize they hadn’t actually seen the two off, or closed the door behind them. Oh, well. They don’t use most of the castle space, anyway. The kids might steal a vase or something.

Their feet feel heavy as lead as they drag themself back into the study that seems less warm now than it had been a few minutes ago. They sink into their chair and pick up their discarded book, tossing the bookmark aside and trying to get back into reading it, but...they find their eyes slipping off the words, and the story itself is nowhere near as interesting as they remember. The makeshift detective would solve the case, clear her name, and fall in love with the delinquent she’d roped into assisting her. What was the point in reading all the way through to find _that_ out? How had they gotten so far into it before? They can’t even concentrate for long enough to get through a paragraph, let alone a quarter of a book.

They shut the book and set it down on the table beside them, frowning at their forgotten drink. They pick up the glass and take a sip. It tastes like grapes.

They throw back the rest of the wine in one swallow and sag in their chair, hair wrapping around their front. Maybe they should be concerned about the encounter and their sudden change in demeanor, but they find they _can’t_ be, no matter how many times they run it through in their mind. It’s as if the whole thing happened to somebody _else,_ and they’re merely watching from a few feet away. 

Maybe they’re just tired, the way humans get tired? They’d never _needed_ sleep, only engaging in it to pass the time and to facilitate their dreamwalking, but right now that seems like the only reasonable option, and it’s certainly the only thing they think they _want_ to do at the moment. They lean their head against the arm of the chair, hair curling over them like a blanket as they close their eyes. 

Maybe it’ll help. Maybe they’ll feel better afterwards.

Maybe the cold void in their chest will have gone away by the time they wake up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the kids are expies, because I feel like that's something Sega would do if they were willing to ever touch this lore again with a ten foot pole.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seeds are cast to the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took a while, I basically had to change the order of everything and then I had a couple weeks of hell.
> 
> Authors always survive on comments, true, and I don't like asking this, but right now I'm in a weird place with Puyo and any nice words at all would be an especially huge help keeping me going here. Even if you don't think they're "enough", it means a lot to me at the moment.

Their first emotion, and the one that will define them, is _anger._

They wake to find themself in a deep, cloying darkness that seems to press in on them from all sides, with absolutely no knowledge of how they’d come to be in such a situation, but a powerful irritation that leads them to _immediately_ start fighting back against their prison. They thrash and writhe as best they can, pushing against the invisible walls to no avail, and the more they try to move, the more they realize they physically _can’t,_ leading to an overwhelming wave of terror that only fuels them further.

They can hear muffled voices shouting from somewhere--everywhere?--and can vaguely feel the sensation of moving forward at a rapid pace, without any control over it. In their fear and frustration, they try to call forth their magic, but nothing seems to happen--until one of the voices cries out in pain, and they feel themself falling and hitting the ground. All at once, one of the walls becomes easier for them to push against, and they force themself through, lurching out into the open air. If they could breathe, they’d be _gasping._

...Now that they think about it, why _can’t_ they breathe? Why can’t they _stand?_ It’s as if their legs have ceased to function entirely. They find themself outside, and moon overhead signals that it hasn’t been very long since they’d greeted their visitors--

 _The visitors._ They twist around sharply, searching for the source of the shouting they’d heard, and there the two are--the older boy sitting flat on the dirt path, clutching one hand as if he’d been burned, while the younger kneels next to him with one hand on the other’s shoulder and other hand extended as if reaching out to help, but stopped mid-motion. The younger stares directly at them, eyes impossibly wide in horror, and the elder eventually notices his frozen friend and follows his gaze.

The older boy scuttles back, squeaking in alarm. “I-I didn’t mean to--” he sputters.

All right. Clearly, the boy’s feeling guilty about something. Regarding the book? They can’t exactly remember what had happened after they’d noticed it was blank, but that part doesn’t matter. Right now, they just need to figure out what’s happened to--

“Didn’t mean to _what?”_ Their voice sounds as if it’s been put through several filters to the point where it’s almost unrecognizable, and the words blurt out harsher than they’d intended.

He flinches, leaning as far away from them as he can manage without toppling. “I--the--I didn’t know it was going to...this.”

“What are you _talking_ about?!” They can’t stop themself--they know they don’t need to shout, that they _should_ be a little more careful with their words, but they _can’t,_ they can barely _think_ straight, their whole mind is full of _red_ and _anger_ and--he’s taking too long to answer, they bend forward to try and figure out why in hell their legs aren’t working and--

It’s because their legs don’t exist anymore. All they find is a blank page, and the edge of a gold-trimmed cover.

...They’ve loved books for so much of their immortal life, and now they’re inside of one. Maybe they should recognize the irony in this situation, or maybe they should realize that children are young and don’t always make good decisions, and besides, these two don’t seem particularly malicious, or like they knew what was going to happen. Maybe the kids had been misled. Their magic is probably plenty enough to undo whatever charm has been placed on them.

Logically, they _know_ all of this. But it’s drowned out by an unstoppable inferno that builds and builds and builds inside of them. It’s _humiliating._ How _dare_ these stupid children try to trick them like this? They deserve--

\--no, no, there’s no reason to hurt them, that isn’t the reputation they want for themself--

\--but these two _deserve to be punished for what they’ve done,_ mortals messing with power they can’t even comprehend--

\--what’s _wrong_ with them?

“A-are you…” The older one hesitantly gets closer, and they realize they’re _shaking_ with the sheer _force_ of their own thoughts. But his movement _snaps_ something in their head, and all of their meager logic disappears.

They rise up as tall as they can and _screech,_ trying to call on their magic and finding it trapped in the confines of the book--but that only makes them _angrier_ and _louder_ and the boys scream in return and scramble to their feet and _run_ and they just _keep screaming_ because it isn’t as if they can run out of breath.

They know this isn’t like them. _What is wrong with them?!_ It’s like a dam in their mind has vanished all at once and now they’re drowning in the rapids and they _can’t do anything about it._

All of the fight drains out of them at once, and their cry cuts short. The anger is instantaneously replaced with mindless terror, and they flop over the side of the book onto the dirt, trying to _wrench_ their body forward and get the book to move. They can _see_ the castle up the hill, they aren’t too far away from it. They can fix this with something back home, they’re _sure_ of it, but the book refuses to move more than a few centimeters as they throw themself at the ground again and again and _again_.

They can’t move. They can’t do _anything._ They realize in a rush that the castle is _impossibly_ far away, and the only people who know they’re in this predicament are likely halfway to the village already. They scream again, because it’s the only thing they _can_ do, but their heart isn’t in it this time. They sprawl out onto the ground, unable to even feel the earth against their face.

They’re trapped, immobile, magic throttled, and their mind won’t stop racing, spiraling further and further out of their control. They don’t even feel like themself. Is this how they’re going to spend the rest of their existence? What will become of them when it rains? Will they spend eternity in a soggy, crumbling prison in the dirt?

They can’t believe they’ve been reduced to this.

“Hey.”

They whirl around to find the younger boy with the long hair and threadbare coat standing a ways away. All at once, the fury is back. _“What do you want with me,”_ they snarl.

He holds up his hands in a placating gesture. “I, uh...wanted to say I was sorry. For both of us.”

“...What?”

He kneels down to be closer to their eye level, one arm thrown over a knee as he chews on his lip. “Yeah. Um…” He glances over his shoulder down the path, and they notice his shoulders stiffen. “Cam isn’t great at admitting when he’s screwed up. I think he thought he’d be some kinda hero if he stuck you in that book and brought you to the village like that. He thought you were really awful. Convinced me to back him up. But you didn’t seem so bad to me…”

It’s a nice sentiment, and normally one they’d take at face value. As it is, they still want to hurt this child. “Well?” they snap, “He succeeded, I’m in this book, so what are you going to do now?”

The boy pops his lips, opening his mouth to answer, though the words don’t make it out for a few impatient moments. “He kind of...didn’t.”

“What do you _mean_ he _didn’t?!”_

“No, no, I--” He grunts and shakes his head, obviously having trouble gathering his thoughts. “I mean he _did,_ but I don’t think it worked the way it was supposed to?”

“I am in this book. I cannot get _out_ of this book. I can still make you two _suffer.”_

His eyes go wide and he shakes his head rapidly. “Y--you’re in this book but you’re also back at the castle, okay?”

That freezes them in their metaphorical tracks. “What?”

“There was this big flash of light and you--other you--was on the ground and I thought you were dead.” His words come out in a jumbled, hasty mess. “But you got up and started talking but I saw you were also in this book at the same time and I don’t know what happened.”

There’s a long pause as the boy catches his breath and they consider the new information. They try to retrace their steps--they’d taken the book, looked at it, realized it was cursed. The curse had begun to affect them, something pulling at their insides, and they’d fought against it.

Their memory abruptly ends at a single moment of agonizing pain.

...That...isn’t possible, is it? This time, they put all of their will into reigning in their tone. “What do I look like to you right now.”

The boy squints at them for several moments, frowning. “...Kind of...really thick red smoke. I think there’s eyes in it? Yeah, yellow...glowy eyes. Like a cat.”

...It’s the only explanation that makes sense. The book had ripped their very spirit from their body--or, at least, _most_ of it. Just enough of themself was left in their body to keep it alive, but it probably wasn’t exactly _living_ at present. Their _essence,_ their _spark_ is here, the physical form it wants to take not yet solidified.

“...Your friend is in over his head.” Their voice is cold. “This is powerful magic.”

The boy nods solemnly. “I know.”

For a while, the two just stay there, staring at each other. There’s still a very large part of them that wants to lash out, but with new knowledge of their situation, the fact that they don’t have their mind’s logic restraining them, they try and swallow the impulse down. They don’t want to become what the village thinks they are.

(Not yet, at least.)

“...Take me back to my body.”

“I can’t.”

_“Why not.”_

The boy flinches. “I really do need to get home or Mom’s gonna worry and Dad’s gonna be really mad. Plus your body kind of...walked away and I don’t know where it went. But I can take you back to my house for now and then take you back up to the castle as soon as I can, okay?”

They don’t like the compromise. They want to go back _now._ They just barely force a shout back down their throat, glancing over their ‘shoulder’ towards the castle. There’s no way they’re getting back on their own. They’re going to need _somebody’s_ help, and the boy is offering.

This just keeps getting more embarrassing.

“...Fine.” They find their spirit form has decided to take on a pair of skinny arms, as they’re able to cross them over their ‘chest’. “But you’re taking me back _as soon as possible._ Do you understand?”

“Yeah. Can I pick you up?”

They _bristle._ “Sure.”

The boy hesitantly reaches over with both hands and carefully lifts their prison from both sides, leaving it open in his hands and not looking entirely sure what to do with it. But he meets their gaze and offers up a shy little smile.

“I'll help you fix this,” he says. “I promise.”

Of course, he doesn’t get the chance. It’s only three days before his father realizes the book is magical, alive, and demonic--the argument that ensues is explosive, and they’re quickly taken out of the boy’s hands.

And the next few centuries are a blur.

* * *

“Ajisai?”

They barely crack open one eye. Yes, that _is_ their name, isn’t it? Or, at least, the name they give to those who ask--given names and true names are very different things that should not be confused. They’d changed their given name a few times, but had gotten quite attached to this one after keeping it for so long. Though, now...it doesn’t particularly _feel_ like their name. It’s as if it belongs to someone else. Maybe it’s time for another change.

They recognize the voice, of course, though they’re not sure why the bookseller is here or how she’d gotten in. Had they left the door open the last time they’d checked on the garden? When had that been? Two days ago? Weeks? Even the days they don’t sleep through blend together in a blurry mess. It’s probably fine, they reason.

They close their eye and start to doze again, listening to the sound of the bookseller’s footsteps somewhere out in another hall. She calls for them a few more times, no doubt lost. 

Apparently, they drift off at some point, because the next thing they know, her voice is very close by. “There you are!”

They hum somewhere in their throat and blearily open their eyes to see the short, mousy-haired woman standing in the doorway to their study, looking rather alarmed. Reluctantly, they sit up properly in their chair, hair uncurling from around them. “Hello.”

“Where have you _been?_ I--I was worried about you.”

“What?” They blink several times. “I just visited.”

The woman shakes her head, eyes going even wider. “Ajisai, the last time you visited was _six months ago."_

“...Oh?” Their eyes narrow and their hair flicks back and forth in thought. Has it really been that long? Usually, they head back into the village about once a month or so, having run through their recent book purchases. Their gaze drifts to the book face-down on the floor.

She nods aggressively, then follows their gaze, gasping softly. She crosses the room and picks the book up, wincing as she sees the bent pages. “Did you at least finish this one?” She shows them the cover. “The mystery?”

“The...mystery.” It takes them a moment. “Oh. ...No.” Were they supposed to?

Her face twists into an expression they can’t quite read, as she carefully smooths out the crumpled pages and sets the book down on their desk. Usually, they admire the gentleness with which she handles books, but as they watch her all they can think of is whether she’d simply come to scold them. Really, their recent behavior has left them with a dull worry churning their stomach, and it isn’t as if they’re not _trying_ to recapture some of their old self--they’d tried to read the book three separate times, but every time their eyes simply slid off the words without taking them in and they couldn’t figure out the point. 

She walks over to them, sky blue eyes full of concern as she reaches out to rest the back of her hand against their forehead. Their eyes cross as they peer up at her. “You haven’t visited, your garden’s a mess, everything’s covered in dust, and I think there’s a gang war going on between the mice and the rats in your kitchen--what _happened?”_

Another few blinks. “There are mice?”

“Yes!” She leans back, wringing her hands. “You didn't even know? You...”

She trails off, and now, they think they recognize the expression on her face. Concern--for them? Maybe they should feel bad that they’re causing her such worry. Maybe they should be alarmed about their garden, or the dust in their immaculately clean living spaces, or their careless handling of a book. They try to conjure up that feeling from somewhere in their chest, but they just...can’t.

“I...don’t know,” they mumble, and find they can’t even feel embarrassed about their lacking vocabulary. “Something happened. Not sure what.”

She winces, staring at them for a few more moments before a spark seems to light in her eyes, and she stands up straighter, hands on her hips. “Well, I’m going to help you, then. And I won’t take no for an answer.”

“What?”

“It’s not as if I need to be at the shop _every_ day--I’m going to start coming over and helping you get yourself back together.” She crosses her arms, glaring at them defiantly as if daring them to refuse her. “This isn’t like you, and I intend to get to the bottom of what’s happened, and get you back on your feet.”

They stare at her blankly for several moments...then smile, faintly. Not because they’re happy, of course. They just think it’s probably what they’re supposed to do.

Maybe she can help them. A faint hope flickers at the back of their mind, like a candle flame liable to go out at any moment. They don’t want to be like this, either.

“Yes. I’d like that.”

She tries _everything_ to bring them back to their old self. She comes over regularly, helps them attempt to get their garden under control and clean what rooms they can manage. She keeps them on a schedule, helps them keep track of time, tells them about books and stories with all the enthusiasm they don’t have. She searches for any information she can find on melancholia, but none of it quite rings true--whatever it is they have, it is much deeper and more dire.

And to be fair, it isn’t as if _she's_ the only one concerned. They become increasingly aware that they don’t act like themself anymore, and it distresses her. With their eyes clear of emotions, they see clearly what she does not, as she becomes increasingly desperate to capture something she wishes she could have had, but reached out for much too late. 

She loves them, or at least, who they had been. It’s clear as day. They wonder if they could’ve loved her too.

Trying everything she can--for both their sake and her own--eventually leads to a vexing dilemma, when she tells them she is to have their child (and becomes _extremely_ offended when they express dull confusion and _surprise_ over the matter). Demon spawn are rare, and they’re not sure what this will mean for her or the child, but they owe her for all of her efforts, and so they take care of her as best they can until she can no longer safely come out to visit. All the while, she describes parenthood like a powerful magic, claims that the love between a parent and child is strong enough to break any curse, and they wonder if maybe seeing their child will fix whatever has broken inside of them, reawaken something in the soul they’re not entirely sure they have anymore.

It does not. She brings them a healthy baby girl with her mother’s clear blue eyes and seemingly none of their features, and all they can see is another human child, no matter how hard they will themself to feel something more. They know they _should_ love their child, and be heartbroken that they don’t--and they know they should be devastated when the child’s mother screams and shouts and cries, fed up with their dead eyes and missing soul, before turning and leaving, promising never to return. They know it should kill them inside, but they also know that it is her right to leave them after so long with them being unable to give her anything in return. They’re surprised she stayed so long, really. 

Without even the faint drive not to worry her, they spiral downwards. Ten years passes in the blink of an eye, as their magnificent castle falls to ruin around them and they can’t bring themself to care. And then, one night, they fall asleep in their study chair as they have thousands of times, only to wake up to sunlight through the window of a little house in the village, seeing through the eyes of their daughter, who cries out in fear as she realizes half of her mousy brown curls suddenly fade to deep maroon at the end. The daughter and mother race to the castle, seeking an explanation--but of course, all that’s left of them is with her, now, and their body is nowhere to be found.

It is the last anyone ever hears of a demon who named themself after the beautiful flowers that have long since rotted in their garden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since no one in this chapter is named outright aside from a reference; Cameron and Aidan are the culprits, Lyn is Sig's first ancestor, and Agnes is the first half-soul.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their two halves end up in two very different sets of hands.

Over the centuries, they travel all over as their prison is passed around like a cursed hot potato: on the continent, then off again over the sea; in their home village, in busier developing cities, even out in the middle of the forest; they’re pretty sure they even travel across the border between worlds and back at some point. 

And all the while, their rage and frustration only grow.

At one point, they find a glimmer of hope--they’re given to a young warlock with platinum hair and a wellspring of magical potential by his parents, who outright _tell_ them to teach the boy all the dark magic they know. It’s an unorthodox request, and they don’t take orders well, but it suits them just fine. With the boy’s natural power, they think they might just have a chance at escaping if he cooperates.

But he doesn’t. He no-sells all of their attempts to teach or convince him with an endless defiance that burns like stubborn sunlight rather than fire, taking any spells they try to show him and expertly altering them for use to lighter ends. He even tries to make _friends_ with them, and takes them with him when he runs away from home. They are the only one to ever see him cry, with gold eyes wide open.

With a bit of smooth talking and his own magical skill, the young warlock gets himself into a boarding school and brightens up considerably from his gloomy past self. He still tries to get them to let go of their anger, _the only thing they have left,_ until one day when his class takes a trip to a prosperous village across the desert. The warlock takes them into the local library, and immediately the librarian--a demon inhabiting a stuffed toy--takes notice of their presence and starts screeching at the two. The warlock ends up giving the book over to the librarian (or, rather, the librarian _insists_ on taking it), and they’re shoved on a shelf in a restricted back room full of books on devious magics and curses the librarian accompanies any visitors to, scoffing at them any time his patrons near the ‘R’ section.

They do occasionally try to pop out and scare the visitors who pass by, taking what little entertainment and stimulation they can get. But for an unknown amount of time--months, years?--they sit there and _seethe_ about how far they’ve fallen. They lose sight of their past self, and decide they want these foolish humans to _pay_ for what's been done to them. They despise _helpless_ they are, how now they’re under the thumb of _another demon entirely_ and unlikely to escape any time soon.

Until the day someone comes into the restricted section unattended.

* * *

Their existence carries on in the same way for generations on generations, to the point where it might even be called a curse.

The first child of each and every one of their direct descendants is born a half-soul. The child lives their life normally until some point around the cusp of adolescence, when, just as suddenly as the first time, they wake up reborn as part of the child, content to rest behind their eyes and live out the child’s life until a new child is born and the cycle repeats again. The first is the only time the ‘carrier’ outright vanishes, but many are left weak or prone to magical illness with the sudden disappearance of half of their soul. It doesn’t matter which parent carries their curse, or how old the parent is, or whether they’re still a part of the family or somewhere far away. It’s always exactly the same.

At first, this repetition appears to continue the trend.

They wake one morning in the eyes of a boy about fourteen years of age. The sunbeam from his window is already a ways across the ceiling--he’s slept in again, but it’s still two months before school starts back up, so he relishes the moment, lying on his back and tracing the cracks above him with his eyes.

He reaches up with his left hand to brush a bit of cerulean hair out of his face--and a line of sharp pain blooms across his skin as he _slices his forehead open_ with a wickedly sharp claw.

He gasps as he realizes what’s happened, and tries to sit and prop himself up with his arms, but the left one won’t take his weight like he expects and he falls backwards, already feeling blood trickling down his forehead. He grimaces, turning his head to the side to avoid getting it in his eye, and before he can even open his mouth to call for help, the door opens and his mother bursts in, a worried but resigned look on her face.

The next few minutes are a blur as she dresses his wound with bandages and a spark of healing magic, then pulls him into her arms as he stares blankly at the wall trying to figure out whether he should be upset over the fact that one of his arms has spontaneously turned itself into a scaled crimson claw. They’re not entirely sure what to think of it, either. Their curse has presented itself physically in many ways--the length, growth, and color of fingernails; discoloration of the skin or eyes; a shift in hair characteristics and color; veins being a little too prominent on one side; but this...an entire _replacement_ of a feature. They haven’t seen this before.

They’re not sure why it happened this way, but they suppose it doesn’t matter. The boy will learn to live with it just as all of his forebears had, and he’ll probably have a fairly quiet, happy life until the curse is passed on.

After all, why would things be different _this_ time?

* * *

They notice the stranger in the restricted section at once, and are surprised the librarian didn’t--the invisibility spell is _good,_ yes, but not perfect, and the stranger’s magic aura still shines out loud and clear, with a surprising amount of potential.

The stranger lets the spell fall, shimmering back into visibility and doubling over with a sigh of relief. To their bewilderment, it’s a boy who couldn’t be older than fourteen, a student of the magic school judging by the wings on his cap. He rests his hands on his legs, taking a few deep breaths to recover from what was probably an extended expenditure of energy, before adjusting his glasses with two fingers and standing straight, an utterly _maniacal_ grin spreading across his face as he looks over the shelves. He rubs his hands together eagerly, before quickly shaking his head.

“No, no, no. Focus,” he chides himself, with a voice that clearly hasn’t even started to deepen yet. “ _‘Saurin’s Introductory Codex of Curses’._ Find it, look for the flashiest thing in there, copy it down, get out. Okay.”

...Why is someone so young interested in dark magic? Is he trying to impress someone? It doesn’t particularly matter to them, but the book he’s searching for is directly below them. They can have a bit of fun, get the kid in trouble, and _maybe_ get on the librarian’s _good_ side, if he even _has_ one.

The boy starts looking through the shelves with all the quick, stiff nervousness of a rodent, trailing over titles with a finger and muttering to himself. Occasionally, he’ll stop and gush at a book he’s heard of, then quickly try to get himself back on task after a quick glance over his shoulder. He gets to the ‘M’ section, then past the ‘O’s, then over to the next shelf…

They squeeze out from the pages, forcing themself through the little space between the book’s top and the shelf (the advantages of being immaterial), before bursting forth in the largest, scariest, most fanged form they can make themself take, screeching at the boy like a banshee. The boy lets out a shriek shrill enough to match as he jumps several inches straight up, landing on his rear and scrabbling backwards in a crab-walk as they cackle at him.

It’s childish, yes, but they take what they can get these days. It's not like they have any dignity left.

His glasses have fallen askew on his face as he peers up at them, wide-eyed. He opens his mouth, but no words come out, and then--to their surprise, he leaps to his feet, rushing forward and _yanking_ their book off the shelf. The movement is so quick that their ‘body’ is jerked towards him like an overstretched rubber band, and they find themself resuming their more usual form as the boy opens the book.

“What are you _doing,”_ they snap, but the boy isn’t listening. He readjusts his glasses and squints at the words burned into the inside cover, mouth moving silently as he spells out the old language--they swore nobody knew it anymore.

 _“‘Cast in chains, those who seek what they must not find,’”_ the boy recites. He slowly swivels his gaze to look up at them, as they watch him with narrowed eyes and hands on their ‘hips’. There’s a certain, barely-restrained giddiness in his voice. “...You’re the Record of Sealing, aren’t you?”

“What?” Tales of them have gotten around, but most don't know their prison by name. They’re intrigued, in spite of themself. _“I_ am not. The _book_ is. Why?”

The boy gasps. “I--I thought he’d made you up.”

 _“Who_ made me up?” Irritation creeps into their tone. “How do you know me?”

“Sorry, sorry.” The boy waves a hand, before curling it into a fist at his chin in an overly enthusiastic expression. “It’s just--Lemres mentioned you very briefly in a recent interview.”

“...Lemres? _Interview?”_

“Yes!” The boy stands up straight, admiration shining in his eyes. “He’s quite well-known, you know.”

Of _course_ the warlock had become famous. They pout, crossing their arms and drooping a little bit. But they do notice the boy’s magical potential--it’s nowhere near as strong as Lemres, but considering he’d snuck in here looking for curses...could he…?

“Why are you here alone,” they ask with a frown.

The boy awkwardly tugs at his collar. “Well...classes begin soon, and there's this exhibition at the school, you see. We’re all supposed to show off something we learned over the summer, but nothing I can think of is _good_ enough.”

“So you came here looking for a curse?”

“N-not a major one! Just something that looks impressive, that’s all.” The boy nervously glances around the room, as if expecting the librarian to burst in at any moment. “They don’t think I can _handle_ dark magic. That’s why Mr. Akuma wouldn’t let me in here, but if I can _show_ them, maybe…”

At once, they realize several things about this boy. He doesn’t _like_ the idea of sneaking into the restricted section, but feels as if whatever he’s trying to do is more important than following rules. He doesn’t actually know a single thing about curses, and thinks he’s more powerful than he really is. He’s overconfident and desperate to prove himself to others.

All of this, combined with his potential...this could work for them. They just have to be careful. “...You're on the wrong track.”

The boy blinks. “What?”

“I know the book you were looking for, and it isn’t going to have anything useful for you. It’s mostly causing bad luck and turning people’s hair into snakes, that sort of thing.”

“I’d like to turn Raffina’s hair into snakes,” he mutters.

“What-- _later._ The point is, you aren’t going to find anything impressive. Now, I can sense your power. You can handle bigger things than that. But those bigger things require practice and training. They cannot simply be copied down.” 

The boy frowns, glancing away, his other hand reaching up to steady the book in his hold. “No one will teach me. They teach to the lowest common denominator.”

“I know, I know. Which is why I am offering my help.”

_“What?!”_

“Listen to me. _I_ don’t want to be trapped in this library anymore. _You_ want to grow stronger. Right?” He slowly nods. “I am centuries old. I know magics that have fallen by the wayside, forgotten by most. And I have no qualms about teaching you what I know you can handle, and offering you the power you need for more complicated spells. A magical focus, if you will.”

The boy’s shoulders hunch, and he chews on his lower lip. “Lemres said you were some sort of demon.”

“Lemres was correct, but I have no reason to trick you.” For right now, at least, it’s the truth, if not the _whole_ truth. “I simply want to exist outside of this room.”

The boy hesitates, but they can see him considering it. And then--

”What was that, kuma!”

There’s a shout from the hall and the boy jumps in place, eyes going wide. They see their chance. “Try it. Focus your magic into the book, then try that invisibility trick again.”

The boy nods, closing his eyes. They sense him calling on his magic, and wisps of purple trail down his arms towards them. They take his magic and give it back to him, along with whatever power they can muster, and he fades from view with a few muttered words a moment before the librarian bursts in, _smoking_ in anger.

“Are you causing _trouble_ again,” the librarian demands, squinting around at the shelves. Their new companion holds his breath, and they do their best to mask his magic aura with theirs. The librarian’s beady eyes alight on the empty space in the shelf, and he rears up with a shrill cry, his body parts practically separating from his torso. _“MA, KUMA! What is the meaning of this?!”_

The librarian scrambles around the room, presumably looking for them, and the boy barely dodges out of his way. They continue feeding him their power to keep the spell going, until eventually the librarian gives up and bounds down the hallway with another screech. “Get out of here,” they hiss at him, and the boy doesn’t need to be told twice.

They know he’s on their side then and there. And they _greatly_ look forward to the partnership.

* * *

Sig is transferred to a new school shortly after the incident. He doesn’t really know _why,_ but, of course, he goes with it, even if it necessitates him moving rather far away. His mother sets him up a place to live at the edge of Primp Town while she cares for his now-ailing parent, and insists on him contacting home whenever he can.

His first day at class is...less than ideal--the teacher asks him to introduce himself to the rest of the class, but he’s only able to get through his name and age before he gets distracted by a butterfly outside one of the windows, causing an extremely long and awkward silence until the teacher mercifully tells him to go sit down. The class is rather full, but there are a couple of open seats, all adjacent to a boy about Sig’s age near the front of the room.

Sig sits down at his new desk, propping his chin on his good hand and preparing to at least _try_ to pay attention to the lesson. But they can’t help but notice an odd magical aura in the air, and they nudge Sig into glancing over to get a better look at his new seat neighbor.

Even with the fashion conventions of most people in Primp, the boy is dressed oddly, what with the pocket watch he’s using as some sort of complement to his tie. He’s sitting up much too straight, and doesn’t even notice Sig looking at him, too busy scribbling the lesson into a leather-bound notebook in tight, neat handwriting, seeming to absorb every word. As the lesson goes on, the boy fidgets with his pencil, glances down at the bookbag next to him occasionally, then quickly away. He raises his hand too much, calling out answers with too much enthusiasm, and a few classmates roll their eyes and mutter, not that he seems to care. They can’t find anything too strange about him, but the aura still...bothers them in a way they haven’t felt bothered in centuries, like an itch at the back of their soul that makes Sig keep looking over.

When the bell rings to signify the end of the lesson, the boy sitting next to Sig is the first to his feet. As he picks up his bookbag and crams his notebook inside, they catch the briefest glimpse of red and gold from the depths of the bag, and suddenly, it all makes sense, even if they haven’t seen the book since the day they were split.

So _that’s_ where the rest of them had ended up. It's quite the lucky coincidence that they'd find their other half after all this time, not that they're able to feel too excited about the unexpected windfall.

...But they decide to keep an eye on this boy and his book, anyway. Maybe something will come of it, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was mostly a result of my desperate attempt to make "this book Lemres told me about" work.
> 
> Also, yes, next chapter is The Big Fever 2 One.


End file.
